


Take Me Out There

by tunalips



Series: KJ/Griefers 'verse [4]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 08:41:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunalips/pseuds/tunalips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robin decides to take a chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Me Out There

‘I’m Static Snow, my profession is romancing and badassery. You are?’

Robin’s alarm chooses that moment to start squalling, waking her from a dream of hands buried in a messy faux hawk, green eyes shining with want, and calloused fingers tracing inked skin. She groans, flailing towards the alarm. Her fingers brush the tuner and the beeping shifts to the white noise of the radio. Robin burrows back under her blankets, trying vainly to fall back asleep. Her mind is racing faster than a shiny motorcycle out on the desert.

It’s been three days. Three days since Static Snow had whirled into Robin’s life, turned everything on its head then left just as quickly.

Before, Robin had been almost content with her life in Battery City. She ran through the routines with her head down, just another sheep. BL/ind keeps them all under control through daily doses of mood stabilizers and the ever-present broadcast of “don’t worry, be happy.” Some people, though, are proving immune to the drugs. They don’t affect Robin but she’s learned to play along, acting as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

At least, she’d been able to do that until Static came along. Now Robin’s world is full of color. Instead of the black and white, the shadows, she’s noticing the little things that have always been there. The rainbows of light reflecting through glass and the way the colors in people’s eyes shift from day to day. It’s like a dam has broken in her eyes and all the vibrancy has flooded her senses. And it’s all thanks to Static Snow.

Deep in thought, Robin starts when a voice crackles over the white noise of the radio.

“Bad news from the zones, tumbleweeds...”

Dr. Death Defy. Sometimes Robin will catch these Killjoy broadcasts piggybacked onto the tail-end of the normal signal. They waver in and out of reception, but she’s caught ‘80’s punk and ‘70’s rock, and every now and then, a few words from “Dr. D.” It’s never anything she understands, just cryptic messages or lists of Killjoys who had been ghosted.

That brings her thoughts around to her own Killjoy again and she rolls over until she can reach the radio, upping the volume and securing the signal as best she can.

“...looks like our own Fabulous Killjoys got themselves ghosted while playing on the big BL/ind’s home turf last night. Though we mourn the loss of some of our best operatives, you’ll be pleased to know that we’ve got our Amazing Grace back, and she’s safe. The memories of the Fabulous Killjoys will be honored you-know-where, whenever y’all get here.

“Anyway, it’s time to hit the red line and up thrust the volume out there. Keep your boots tight, keep your gun close, and die with your mask on if you’ve got to. Here, is the traffic.”

The words are replaced by the sounds of cars rushing past and Robin settles back into the blankets, deep in thought. Static Snow had never mentioned being a “Fabulous” Killjoy, but what if she is, and Robin has just heard the announcement of her death? She mulls it over for another minute before she rolls out of bed and starts to get ready.

She showers, remembering the exploring, hands from her dream as she washes the few tattoos decorating her body. Her first runs down her forearm, inked letters spelling out “the play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscious of the king.” One thing her father had given her was a love of Shakespeare, and she’d memorized his plays out of the crumbling, leather-bound book her father had hidden beneath the floorboards. ‘Purgatory’ flows from hip to hip across her stomach, reference to an old song she’s heard on the Killjoy radio waves. A robin, her namesake, flits across her thigh and she’s got a biohazard symbol on the back of her neck. Her most recent are the f-holes on her lower back, just like those on the violin her father taught her how to play. She’d gotten them all in the backs of grimy Fuck You houses, out in the Zones while bands played to the screaming crowds of Chem kids and zonerats.

Robin dries her hair, brushing the long part away from the shaved section. She pulls on her grey high rise shorts, tucking in her black and white striped tank top. She places what looks like an ordinary pack of playing cards into her back pocket. Into her canvas bag she places her father’s old pocket knife and her beat up transistor radio. As an afterthought she grabs the battered old violin case that leans against the wall.

Last of all she pulls on her scuffed leather boots, comfy and worn. And that’s it, she grabs her bag and she’s out the door.


End file.
